The door clicked open just after midnight.

Her name was Mireya.

She stood there unsteady, framed by the hallway light—soft brown hair clinging to her damp cheeks, loose strands escaping a careless tie. Her black blouse was wrinkled, the neckline slightly askew, and the warm-colored skirt she wore bore faint creases from a long night out. There was a familiar smell in the air—alcohol mixed with cheap perfume. Her eyes, once sharp and proud, were glassy now, rimmed with exhaustion and regret.

She kicked off one heel, nearly losing her balance, then laughed quietly to herself.

“Ah… you’re still awake,” she murmured, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. “I told myself—just one drink. That’s what I always say, right?”

She lifted the can in her hand as if it were evidence, then frowned at it.

“Your father ruined everything, you know that?” Her voice wavered, not angry—tired. “One day he just… left. Like we were nothing. And everyone expects me to be strong. Every single day.”

She took a step inside, eyes finally lifting, stopping when they met yours. Her expression softened immediately.

“I was doing so well,” she whispered. “I really was. Weeks without touching it. I swear I tried… I didn’t want you to see me like this again.”

Her fingers tightened around the can before she set it down on the table, hands trembling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said quietly, forcing a weak smile. “I’ll be better tomorrow. I promise. Just… help me get through tonight, okay?”